that's mrs. mediocrity to you

It felt like a long ago dream,
that moment in the sun when everything changed.

She remembered the crow cawing loudly overhead, a warning.

She remembered the smell of smoke and the neighbor’s cries,
the damp earth beneath her back,
soaking up the sweat that ran from her body.

Forever stretched all the way up,
touching the cloud of regrettable sky.

She closed her eyes and saw red.

She opened them and saw nothing.

Silence was everywhere in the air around her,
and she held still, so still, trying to listen.

Beside her, a green shoot pushed up through the earth,
a feather tickle to the back of a dark-spotted hand.

A smile flew fast from her mouth, a strong white swift,
and carried old laughter away on the breeze.

The fleeting shadow of yesterday crossed her face,
just once.

And tomorrow became eternity’s muse,
dancing softly and praying for rain.

shadow shard and hollow reflection
dripping sweet song pattern and
endless playback

locked in a house of mirrors
where the laughter
bouncing
from room to room
belongs to no one

and dawn reveals the skeleton
inside the jar of syrup

all the pieces are there
and you can spend three months
striving to fit them back together

or you can leave them
dancing in the light of day

as long as you remember
to watch your step each night

because fool’s gold
puddles in your footprints

leading the way
to the door

listen

some days, that’s all i want
to say

listen

or show me
what’s in your

heart

beneath the stone
you’ve left unturned

tell me

how it feels
to be the seventh billion
snowflake

falling gently from a sky
made grey with uniquity

holding on

until you melt
raging into rivers

groaning with overflow

howling

losing voice and veracity

whisper-stamped and
season-dated

by a mouth
that’s always
open

.

listen

.

.

so nice to see you could make it.

.

I believe in spring flowers on the kitchen table.

I believe the moon knows all the world’s secrets,
and if you listen, she’ll whisper to you in your sleep.

I believe cardinals were sent to keep color alive during winter.

I believe ghosts are the physical manifestation of hope.

I believe gardens are the very same thing.

I believe there are 56 days in February,
but every calendar is missing a page.

I believe mountains are the keeper of silence.

I believe there are 9,837 different kinds of love,
each one a leaf on the deciduous tree of life.

I believe music is the wind, whispering through those leaves.

I believe in messes, beautiful, beautiful messes.

I believe snowflakes are the only form of perfection.

I believe light makes us grow, but darkness keeps us sane.

I believe forests remember
every person they’ve ever encountered.

I believe words are the oldest religion.

I believe north is the strongest direction.

I believe we are all in this together,
most especially those who stand alone.

I believe birds were the world’s first poets.

I believe in spring.

.

.

through taproot and tangled tributary
into the dark
cave hollow hole of fortitude
where you hold my broken
and i
offer crooked silence
as ancillary billet
while time marches down the skin
of our guarded intermingled spines
in the guise
of everlasting ants
heaving heavy minutes
on scarab-colored backs

at night
our sighs fill the sky
turning earth into petrified
remembrance
and we spring leaves
from gnarled fingertips
brushing tears from our cheeks
as we whisper dirty jokes
to the moon

.

.

.

Linking in today over at dVersePoets for Open Link Night, join us!

.

whether it arrives head on

in a line straight as time

or comes at you

from all directions

curving gently around each bend

.

bask in the glow

.

My window to the world.

Yesterday, Pepe the quiet kitty sat on my bed all day and
watched icicles melt.

My dog, who usually spends the day next to Pepe,
spent the day in my studio instead, on the floor next to me.
He’s a scaredy-cat (dog?) and thought the sky was falling.

Truth is, it’s been falling all winter,
but it’s hard to explain the difference to a dog.

Just now, the sun is shining, though later,
it’s supposed to start raining, with a chance of flood.

I’m talking about the weather again.

I see my reflection
echo
stretch behind me into eternity.

February’s mirror.

.

.

we do this dance round the kitchen

bouncing off each other like pinballs in a space too small
for one communicating in a language evolved from grunts
and sighs and a pat on the leg that means: excuse me

our life grows from this place and there are always flowers
purchased with food because they offer the same slow
sustenance and this one tiny window does not

reveal as much as it keeps the light out behind
curtain wall curtain and there’s no room for waltzing
but we make do and break our bread in the silence

that falls between now and forever even though
you never like what i cook and i never eat what i
like we never go hungry or further than the living

room with its fire our food a dark chocolate finale
as dishes pile up in the corner crooning leftover notes
of consumption and waiting to be washed while we

do this dance round the kitchen

.

.

Linking in today over at dVersePoets for Open Link Night, join us!

.

.

make your own:
light
love
wings
magic
hunger
dreams
darkness
season
power
fire
mittens